


Of Distance and Space and the Relativity of Both

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-17
Updated: 2008-04-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title: Of Distance and Space and the Relativity of Both, 6 of 10<br/>Prompt:the space between us, "the 10s" challenge.<br/>Fandom: Torchwood<br/>Pairing: Jack/Ianto<br/>Rating: R<br/>Word count: 1,476<br/>Warnings: Vague mention of events of End of Days (1x13). No, really. Vague. Blink and you'll miss it. Adult-type situations near the end (the boys can't help but get naughty, even when I try to make them behave). Character death, but it's just Jack's and we know how long that lasts.<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them. <br/>Summary: The Captain ponders the relativity of distance over the course of a standard Torchwood evening.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Of Distance and Space and the Relativity of Both

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Of Distance and Space and the Relativity of Both, 6 of 10  
> Prompt:the space between us, "the 10s" challenge.  
> Fandom: Torchwood  
> Pairing: Jack/Ianto  
> Rating: R  
> Word count: 1,476  
> Warnings: Vague mention of events of End of Days (1x13). No, really. Vague. Blink and you'll miss it. Adult-type situations near the end (the boys can't help but get naughty, even when I try to make them behave). Character death, but it's just Jack's and we know how long that lasts.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them.   
> Summary: The Captain ponders the relativity of distance over the course of a standard Torchwood evening.

The desk is 32 inches wide but feels like miles when you're standing so prim and proper on the opposite side, hands in your pockets, that expertly masked face set in respectful indifference. You've just brought me a sheaf of papers thick as a brick, every single one of them needing my signature, my attention. I'll give them the former but they'll never have the latter, not with you standing there, tormenting me with your presence, standing just out of reach. I can smell you from here, your soap and your cologne, the oil from the coffee beans you've handled all morning and the dust from the archives you think you've brushed off but lingers, unseen, in the creases you can't reach. I'd sign away Owen to Torchwood Four for a pack of chewing gum and a third basemen to be named later and wouldn't even notice, times like these. 

"Anything else, Sir?" Your voice is flat and even, unaffected. You have no way of knowing how much your presence - just your presence - can unnerve me near the end of a long day when you've spent most of it hiding in the tourist office, barraging me with casually flirtatious instant messages and coy winks conveyed over the distance by the grace of a CCTV camera. I think you have no way of knowing, that is, but something flickers across your eyes, brief and quickly hidden, that makes me wonder if you're aware of more than you let on. 

Of course you're aware. What the hell am I thinking?

"Well," I say, leaning on my elbows with my best patent-pending come hither look, "while you're here, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind - "

A loud beeping sounds through the hub, followed by Tosh's voice, shouting over the commotion from her station. "Weevil sighting at a pub downtown! Two people wounded so far!"

I sigh as I get to my feet. Lecherous intentions derailed yet again. Why is Fate so cruel? What've I ever done to Her, huh? I brush past you, shrugging the greatcoat on as I go, and get three steps past before I turn. "Up for a little Weevil hunting?" I ask, hopeful.

"Not much of a hunt," you say, still wearing that bland expression that makes me want to shake you sometimes, "if we know right where they are."

"Semantics. Just grab your kit and come on already!"

You roll your eyes. Well, I guess you roll your eyes; I’m already two steps ahead and fitting my earpiece snuggly in place. But I know you and I know those eyes rolled at least for a second. But your footsteps sound behind mine a second after that, just like I knew they would.

**

The Weevil's teeth are a half-inch from my throat and getting closer by the second. His hot breath fans my face with his every snarl and it reeks of sewage and half-digested meat. You're halfway across the room, slumped against the bar where he threw you a minute before. I can see you starting to move out of the corner of my eye, fighting to your feet and unsteady. You're maybe six feet away and the Weevil hasn't noticed you're anything but an unconscious lump of meat yet. He's too busy trying to get a taste of the Captain. And really, can you blame him? It's those 51st Century pheromones. Gets 'em every time.

The pub is empty, save the corpse two feet away, you, me, and Mr. Big and Ugly trying to take the concept of "necking" with me too far. My gun is two inches shy of the fingers reaching for it, knocked loose when the Weevil tackled me to the floor. Who knows where the Anti-Weevil Spray landed, but it's not close enough to do me much good. Neither is the gun a second later when I feel teeth tear into my neck. Not that it matters. By then I'm too busy screaming to care about getting my fingers around the barrel. 

I think I hear a shout. A gunshot. It's all fuzzy and muted, though. Not really here, not really there. Well, more like I'm not really here or there. I'm slipping loose, draining away. It's okay, though. I won't be gone long. I'm never gone long.

Something's shaking me. I wonder if it's the Weevil trying to tear off an arm for a second course but when I force open my eyes I'm looking up into your bright, beautiful face. You're fuzzy and muted too, but I'm not complaining. 

"God, Jack…" Your fingers fumble at my throat, looking for a pulse. All you find is blood. I swear, even though you've seen this a dozen times, you still look scared to death. Pardon the pun.

"Be right back," I mouth. Air doesn't really want to cooperate enough to put sounds to the words and I just hope you get the message. I smile weakly to help convey the intent. "Promise."

And then nothing is fuzzy or muted anymore. It's nothing at all.

**

I'm a hundred miles away, a thousand, ten thousand. Or maybe miles don't exist here at all. How do you measure distance - or anything at all - in so much emptiness and black? Seconds? Years? Eons? I'm slogging through it, trying to find my way back and just hoping I'm pointed in the right direction. I've only ever got lost the once but since then I wonder. What happens if I take the wrong path, make the proverbial wrong turn at Albuquerque, and never find my way back? Could I really stay dead for good then?

Would I really want to?

I know the right path when I find it. It's like closing a circuit, clicking a lock in place. That whatever it is that keeps me locked to my body no matter how much I endure latches on and starts tugging me forward. I'm rushing through the black, racing toward a pinprick of light, screaming the whole way.

I wake up gasping, coughing, flailing. You're right there, still kneeling beside me in a puddle of my blood, a dead Weevil a few feet off. As I sit up, trying to settle back into my body again, I notice the stopwatch in your hand.

"How long?"

"One minute thirty."

"Not so long, then." I roll my neck, easing the ache of re-knitted muscle and skin while trying to figure out how much Retcon we're going to need and what story to tell the police and the victim's family. Bar brawl gone horribly wrong, maybe. I’m wondering how Owen could doctor the body to make the gaping hole where the guy’s larynx used to be look like a knife wound when you push up to stand, wiping your bloody hands on the thighs of already ruined pants.

"Long enough," you say, before offering me one of those same hands. "Come on. Have a carcass to transport and a story to spin."

**

There isn't room enough for light to filter in between us now, isn't an inch of yours that isn't mashed up against an equivalent inch of mine. Even that's too far away. I shove back against every thrust and beg for you to be closer and closer and closer still. It's not enough now. I don't just want your arms around me, your weight crushing me, your cock battering inside me, your voice a harsh and low growl in my ear. I need more. I need you seeping through my pores, need to drown in you, need you to chase out the cold that always follows me back. Need you to remind me this is how it feels to be alive again.

By the time I'm screaming your name and jerking into your hand I think I might almost be reminded. When you stutter and still and collapse against me, I'm pretty sure I know.

"Anything else, sir?" you ask, torn between exhausted and amused as we roll onto our sides and you fit into place behind me. There's just enough room between us for your breath, warm and still shaky against my nape. 

"Just this," I say, deep and drowsy. My hand reaches for the one you've tossed over my hip, pulling it to my chest and holding it there, tight. There's no question what "this" is supposed to mean. You're stuck in this cot tonight, stuck right here with me. You nod and kiss my shoulder and hold on a little tighter.

"Good night, Jack," you whisper, the last conscious act of a man at sleep's mercy. 

"Good night, Ianto." I raise the hand I'm holding hostage over my heart and brush a soft kiss against the knuckles before letting myself sink fully into the pillows and sheets. 

I think I might even sleep awhile.


End file.
